I’m not generally speaking a fan of Christina Rossetti, or any of
the Pre-Raphaelites, tbh. Perhaps, when I’m (say) locked in the house for
extended periods of time, I should revisit that.
But my entry for National Poetry Month today is Rossetti’s “The
Plague”. She’s not specific as to the disease, but her depiction would be
accurate for any of the pandemics in human history, including our current one.
Even in “advanced” First World countries, we’re seeing human corpses being
stored in refrigerated 18-wheelers parked outside of overwhelmed hospitals, and
anonymous white coffins lined up in long ditches for either temporary or
permanent burial.
As someone has said, history may not repeat itself, but it sure
does rhyme.
“The Plague”
‘Listen, the last stroke of death’s noon has
struck—
The plague is come,’ a gnashing Madman said,
And laid him down straightway upon his bed.
His writhed hands did at the linen pluck;
Then all is over. With a careless chuck
Among his fellows he is cast. How sped
His spirit matters little: many dead
Make men hard-hearted.— ‘Place him on the
truck.
Go forth into the burial-ground and find
Room at so much a pitful for so many.
One thing is to be done; one thing is clear:
Keep thou back from the hot unwholesome wind,
That it infect not thee.’ Say, is there any
Who mourneth for the multitude dead here?
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